


Comprehension

by transmarkcohen



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Heroin, Rehab, junkie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14558961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transmarkcohen/pseuds/transmarkcohen
Summary: He gets it now.





	1. Mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind/gifts).



    His hands were shaking, his fists balled...he was kneeling on the floor. Curled up. His right hand held the little baggie tightly in his hand. So tight his knuckles turned white.  
    To anybody else it might've looked bad. And it was bad. But Mark...well Mark thought it was the best. He'd made the best decision of his life a few months ago and now…now…  
    _Now_.  
Roger had been right, he realized that now. All that helping him through withdrawal…and for what? He should have stayed addicted, Mark thought, high out of his mind. This was the best time of his life.  
  He'd love things….loved people before. Maureen, his camera.  
This was better. So much better than anything. Film or dancing or sex or love or…  
If he went back to the sex part, then the feeling was orgasmic. Euphoric.  
   That was it.  
    _This_ was happiness. 


	2. Maybe

   Roger had come home and was putting the groceries away. Mark still wasn't back, which felt odd to Roger-Mark wasn't the kind of person to linger somewhere.  
   Well.  
   That wasn't true-Mark often filmed at the park or something. But something told Roger he wasn't filming-  
   Roger’s eyes widened as he noticed it sitting on the coffee table. Mark's camera, dull and still and black. Roger walked over and stared at it. Though it sounded odd, that was all he could do-stare at the camera. He brushed his fingers over the top and found a layer of dust.  
   Roger turned around to look out the window, becoming worried. _Where the hell was Mark?_

  
   He was in some dive bar, high off his ass, laughing his ass off. Ha, ha, he thought. I thought the word “ass” twice. Hahahahaha. And he laughed, sounding stilted and robotic.  
  His friends were here. Junkies, like him. It wasn't a shameful word or a hurting word or a guilty word or a bad word..  
   Roger was so fucking right. Mark didn't bother to cover up the track marks now. He would…  
   He would what? What else was there besides this?  
   Mark wanted nothing more than for this to continue forever, for him to be high, for everything to feel as great as this.

  
   Roger wanted nothing to feel as horrible as this.  
   He checked the clock again.  
    _11:13._  
_Shit._  
   He'd been pacing the apartment for a while. Mark hadn't been back since...since...noon?  
    _Noon!_  
   Maybe Mark was just pacing the city, lost in thought.  
The door opened, and Mark stumbled into the loft, his face grinning and his eyes wild and manic. Roger froze.  
   “Mark…?”  
   Some sort of odd sound came out of Mark’s mouth as his eyes tried to locate Roger. Was he...laughing? “You're blurry,” Mark said. “Y'know...Rog, y'know...You were right!”  
   Roger was frozen to the spot, open-mouthed. Something in him caused him to run over to Mark and pull up his sweater sleeve, revealing track marks.  
Or maybe Mark was high out of his mind, an addict-a heroin addict, a junkie.


	3. roger

“So?”  
“So! So! Is that all you can say? ‘So’? Sometimes, I wish-”  
“I’m going out.”  
Roger glared at Mark. “Oh, no, you’re not. Not now. That I know what you do. We’re going to get you help, you won’t get addicted again, and we’ll be fine.”  
Mark folded his arms across his chest, still not making eye contact with Roger. He’d woken up that morning to a concerned Roger hovering over his bed, having found out, and now it had led to this.  
_You won’t get addicted again._  
Mark smiled a bit, as if he’d heard a joke. Roger had to understand-but he couldn’t-he needed-Mark’s head swam. He couldn’t think coherently. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to-  
“What’s so damn funny?”  
Mark looked up to see Roger staring-glaring at him. Foot tapping. Arms folded. Angry. Mark looked down at his own-his own arms-folded tightly over his chest-hiding himself-his sweater hiding the marks.  
“Nothing, I…” Sweater. Sweat-er. Funny name. Smack. He needed smack.  
Roger was surveying Mark, who looked small and folded in on himself. Roger remembered what it had been like to go through this, even twice, and he hadn’t wanted Mark to go through it even once. But since Mark had had this trial once...well, Roger would ensure that he would never have to go through it again.  
he doesn’t know  
doesn’t know  
what i did  
i tried to stop  
can’t stop  
need more  
need roger  
need smack  
smack roger  
roger smack  
i have to choose  
Roger frowned, noticing Mark rocking back and forth. “Mark?” he asked, trying to be gentle, calm. Mark looked frantic, frenetic, frenzied, dazed.  
“Mark.” Roger stepped closer, a worried look on his face.  
“You’re wrong,” Mark replied. Starting to laugh. He looked at Roger. His eyes were crazed. “And you were right! It’s so ironic!” mark laughs  
is this my laugh  
can’t be  
but it is now  
Roger frowned somehow more, infinitely concerned. “Mark, what’s going on?”  
“I’ve already relapsed.”


	4. rehab

Roger was dragging Mark. Mark was kicking, fighting, trying to get away. 

    “This is for your own good, you know,” Roger told Mark. “You need rehab.” 

    “No I don't!” Mark said, and flimsily aimed a punch at Roger’s face. He missed by about two feet.

   “Don't try and punch me; you're too weak. Which is why I’m dragging you to rehab.” 

   “Well, at least I could have outpa-”

   “ _ Inpatient _ rehab.” 

   Mark growled. Roger tightened his grip. 

   “You’re going whether you like it or not. You’ll get help, and you won’t relapse, and we can put the entire thing behind us.”

   Mark kicked Roger in the shin. This did nothing.

 

   “The room is all ready, Mr. Davis. You were right, he’s very reluctant to be taken care of.”

    Roger sprang up, looking gratefully at the nurse. “Thank you so much. Could you-?”

    “This way.”

    The nurse led Roger to the room Mark was in. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers gripping the sheet angrily. He kept muttering that he shouldn’t be there. Roger rushed over to a chair in front of Mark. 

     “I hate you so fucking much, Davis.”

     “Sure.”

     Mark’s hands balled into fists again and again, curling and uncurling. His vision wasn’t blurry anymore. It was too good, actually-he could see every little seam in Roger’s jeans. He wondered if they’d been made by hand.

     And he didn’t feel like looking up.

     Roger spoke softer now. Gentler. “Mark, this is getting you help.” 

    “Believe that when I see it.”

    “It is!”

    “Do you even know how long I’ve been addicted to smack?”

    “No. Why should that matter?”

    “You should be the one person who doesn’t want me in here. You know what this is like!”

    “Yeah, I do.” Roger sighed and stood up. “Good night, Mark. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

    Mark glared up at Roger, trying not to see his eyes. “Fuck you!”

    Roger didn’t react to this. “Get some rest.” He walked out, leaving Mark alone.

    Mark muttered a curse at Roger, then curled up into a ball on his bed.

    Somewhere, grudgingly, he knew that Roger was right. 


	5. improvement

Weeks passed, and Mark started to improve. Though smack was constantly on his mind, his physical wellbeing at least, was chalking up to normal. Roger tried to visit daily. Mark’s other friends visited too, when they could, but none so much as Roger.   
There came a day when the two were eating lunch in Mark’s room. Chicken alfredo. Mark noticed how the creamy sauce was spread over the noodles, his fork reflecting the lights above his bed as he speared a piece of food and brought it to his lips. And ate it. It was...good.   
“You can eat in the cafeteria next week, right?” asked Roger, not caring to eat so carefully.   
“Three days.” Mark speared another piece. “Should be good.”   
“Yeah…”   
They fell into silence once again. 

…………………………………………….

There was a point where Mark’s health plateaued. He wasn't good, he wasn't bad, he was just...stable.  
Roger noticed. He tried not to bring it up. As long as Mark didn't get worse...well, as long as Mark didn't get worse.   
Mark got to the point where he was mostly independent at rehab. Still had to adhere to doctors, couldn't leave, but he was content enough.   
Every so often he'd think about getting more heroin. 

…………………………………………….

Suffice it to say, Mark was getting better.


	6. visits to you

Roger was walking over to the rehab, as he did every day now. It was a pretty good walk-at least if you wanted to get the briefest exercise in. The only reason he thought about this was so he didn’t have to think about where he was going. Mark had been in rehab for a month and two weeks by now.   
Roger wondered when he’d get out.  
If he’d ever get out.  
Roger shook his head. That thought was ridiculous. Of course Mark would get out. This was just a little bump in the road, a hiccup…  
Roger approached the rehab and quickly went inside, to Mark’s room.

Mark was lying on his side in his bed, looking a bit pale. Was he sleeping?  
“Hey.”  
Mark opened his eyes. Trying to sleep, then. Without saying a word to Roger, he rolled over onto his other side.  
Roger frowned. “Mark?”  
A low grunting was heard from somewhere inside Mark’s pillow. Roger walked over to the other side of the bed to try to get him to talk again.  
“Mark, I came to see you.”   
Mark opened his eyes again, and glared at Roger. “Yeah, I can see that.”   
“Mark…” Roger frowned more. “You’ve been getting worse.”  
Mark didn’t respond.  
“What’s going on?”  
Roger was never sure after that how long this moment of silence was. He thought about it, sure, but he could never remember it. Even when he was trying not to think of it. Trying not to think of Mark.  
Slowly, hesitantly, Mark sat up. He reached under his pillow to pull out a small baggie and a needle.  
Roger was crestfallen. “Oh, Mark…” he said.  
Mark cast his eyes downwards. Roger reached for his hand, pocketed the baggie, and sat down. They sat there for...what seemed like an eternity. Roger held Mark’s hand, and Mark kept thinking how he would never escape this.  
At least he had Roger, a friend he could rely on more than anyone-anything else.  
Including smack.


	7. m

i forget his name  
he comes every day  
sad eyes  
are they for me

i know him  
but i can’t remember  
i only remember  
beep beep beep   
food  
not as good as smack  
does he know

white coats  
blond hair  
somewhere  
where does he go when he leaves  
i wish i could come  
i know i can’t  
they don’t know anything

there has to be a way out

there is no way out

this is a prison

and i have to end my sentence

bye bye  
i’ll miss the smack forever  
and him, too  
whoever he is


	8. arc

     Mark decided to take a walk on The Day. It wasn't as if he could walk very far, but he would go as far as he could.  
     He nearly snorted at the thought. _As far as he could._ What was that, twenty, fifty feet?  
     Mark stopped as he reached the middle of the hallway. He'd had a revelation.  
      _As far as he could._  
     He thought about that. He glanced over his shoes. The laces were untied. He remembered the most recent baggie of smack he'd hidden under his pillow. He would never get to it now, but.  
     His footsteps were mild. Not slow and not fast. Taking him somewhere.  
     He pushed the door open to the roof, and his sneakers crunched on the gravel there. Mark had never understood this part of the roof. But that didn't matter.  
    He walked over to the edge-a brick rail obscured the view. Mark looked over it. Looked over it and down, down, down. Traffic was heavy-as per usual in New York. Cars looked like ants to Mark.  
There were hardly any cars on this side, though. And soon…  
    Mark stepped back, and took a deep breath. This was it.  
    It never occurred to him to say goodbye to Roger. He only wanted to be rid of this endless cycle of smack and rehab and relapsing.  
    So he climbed up onto the rail, tried to balance for one final thought-  
_-Goodbye, smack-_  
    And leapt off.


	9. Maureen

        Three years after Mark’s death, Roger still lived in the same apartment. A new landlord had replaced Benny when he and Alison moved out west. Collins and Mimi had gone in their own time, Joanne and Maureen had broken up and Joanne had moved away from NYC. Roger and Maureen had even slowly drifted apart, becoming more like acquaintances than friends.  
        Roger holed himself up in his apartment, trying to avoid the world. Becoming a hermit. He just went through the motions, eating and sleeping and everything-he feared if he lived in the actual world, he would fall prey to another addiction, just like his best friend had.  
        Today was...actually, Roger couldn’t remember what day it was. He thought maybe it was Tuesday. He sat on the couch, half-assedly pretending to tune his old guitar, staring off into space. Somewhere inside-no, outside the daze of his mind, he heard a knock on the door. “Come in.” Was that really his voice?  
        Maureen opened it, and stepped inside. “Hey.” Roger merely nodded to acknowledge her presence. She looked around the loft, noticing how little had changed in three years.  
        “What are you doing today?”  
        Roger paused, then shrugged. Both he and Maureen knew how foolish it was to ask. Maybe she was trying to retain a sense of normalcy among...the chaos that had been left. A hole ripped through Roger’s entire being.  
       “Cool.” Maureen walked over to a shelf, where a camera had been left. Maureen brushed her finger over it, immediately covering her finger in a layer of dust.  
       “Don't touch that.” Maureen turned to Roger as he snapped at her. He glared at what was now his only friend, his eyes cold.  
Maureen took her finger away. She noticed a book lying next to the camera. “I didn't know you liked to read,” she commented.  
Roger stopped his pathetic tuning, his fingers resting on the strings-somewhat full of potential energy. Waiting. Tensed. “I don't. That's not my book.”  
       “Oh.”  
       They fell into an awkward silence, one much too similar to what Roger’d experienced three years earlier. He played a melody on his guitar-those same chords of Musetta’s Waltz.  
       Maureen searched for something to say, but she found nothing.  
So she left the apartment, leaving Roger alone once more.


	10. Demise

Another year passed.  
Roger slowly dwindled away, until Maureen didn’t even visit anymore. He heard briefly one day on TV that she’d died in an accident. Heard, but not listened.  
That was everything these days-he heard his guitar, but he didn’t listen to the music.   
chords wrong  
notes sour  
did he feel like this right before it happened  
He still ate, still took his medicine, if only out of some unspoken tribute to a friend passed long ago. Maybe there was someone watching out for him. Some sort of guardian angel. Or maybe...that was a stupid thought, and Roger was all alone.  
alone  
alone   
alone   
Maybe there was a way he could fill the hole again...it was a passing thought, but…  
No. Roger sat straight up on the couch. Not a passing thought. He briefly had a vision of a future he could have, if visions exist in this world…  
Soccer practice. Play rehearsal. Report cards. Packed lunches. Dad jokes.  
Would he even be around long enough to experience something like that? To actually be there for them?  
Maybe…  
He glanced at the camera on the shelf.

“Whose camera was that?”  
“I’ve told you; it belonged to an old roommate of mine. He left it here when he…”  
“When he what?”  
“Hmm?”  
“You kinda drifted off.”  
“When he died. There, is that what you wanted to hear?!”  
“Oh. Sorry.”  
“No, I...I should be sorry. It’s been years. I need to get over it.” 

Roger somehow tore his eyes away from Mark’s camera. No. He couldn’t have that future. Couldn’t risk to put a...no, his…hypothetical kid in pain. And that’s what Mark represented now-pain.  
Mark Cohen would never be anything more than a painful memory to Roger, and he thought this even as he died of grief a few days later.  
And then there were none.


End file.
